


stray//shelter

by MaRuX



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Cat Puns, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Rating May Change, Sexual Tension, a dash of, a little bit of, lots of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaRuX/pseuds/MaRuX
Summary: a cat finds shelter"Now I feel special." He says, and his offhand tone might have been deeply frustrating if not for the way his voice sounds smelted and frayed at the edges.She smiles to herself with a fondness she would have had a hard time admitting to as a teenager. "Yes you are."





	stray//shelter

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is just self-indulgent fun and an excuse to write smut and wax poetic abt the MC's looks  
> \- def not a slow-burn  
> \- just to clarify: our beloved MC is a normal civilian here. No Personas and cognitive palaces here.  
> \- he's his canonical age here, and Ann is just a few years older  
> \- I've learned that this scenario fits the trope called "Batman in my Basement", and I think that's beautiful

The day had dragged on five times slower than usual, so Akira climbs the steps to the attic with great relish. He's moving through molasses, time stretched thin like taffy, his head pressed tight against the space between his ears. His eyes are oversensitive, so he doesn't bother turning on the lights. He removes his glasses to press his fingers against his eyes, somehow hoping the extra pressure would make it go away altogether.

There is a meow, then a sleek little body brushing against his legs, purring and chirping. He shrugs off his blazer, lets it spill on the sofa before squinting at the mess next to the metal shelf, junk he hadn't yet cleaned through in more disarray than usual. He looks back at the dark mass undulating against his boots, a mix of fond exasperation and tired resignation in his bones.

"Morgana, I told you not to mess around that part of the room. If you got hurt or broke something, Sakura-san will kick my ass."

The cat doesn't answer, knowing Akira couldn't do anything aside from empty threats. Also because he is a cat.

Akira huffs, then bends down to pet him. Getting back up, he takes a minute to stretch, then proceededs to get ready for bed, muscle memory guiding him in the dark.

There is an odd prickling at the back of his head, but he is too exhausted to give it much thought. Must have been just the after-effects of the intense scrutiny he is under at Shujin ever since he registered. It has a familiar weight to it pressed against his skin, like the glare of a magnifying glass.

Yeah, no, that's a problem for tomorrow's Akira. Whatever this is, he outright refuses to deal with it right now, silently asking for a break from the universe trying to screw him over one more time before he gets the chance to go unconscious.

He refuses to look at the pile of junk in the room, at the sliver of moonlight peering through an almost-closed window (that he never opened) as he reaches his bed. Morgana promptly climbs onto the covers, looks at Akira with his big blue eyes, tail swishing in languid eights.

"You got something to tell me, Mona?" The cat looks around at things in the dark, the occasional thump of his tail against the mattress serving as a punctuation. Akira can't contain his yawn anymore. It feels big enough to swallow the sun. "Going by your demeanor, it doesn't seem that urgent. Can it wait until tomorrow?" Morgana's little ears swivel a few times, then chirps once before he finally seems to settle. He primly turns and arranges himself in a fluffy little ouroboros at the lower end of the bed. Akira makes sure not to jostle him too much as he slips under the covers.

For an indefinite amount of time he is under the pleasant weight of unconsciousness - could have been a few hours, or just a few seconds. Something pushes his senses back into a quarter of consciousness, his brain disoriented from the sudden input. The feeling of pressure on the bed, more than what Morgana could weight. The gritty grey that permeates everything gradually turning into the blueish tint of moonlight coming from his now half-opened window. An outline of something in front of him, above him, moving gingerly towards the opening.

There is a sort of creak in their movements from the- the clothing. Tight, form-fitting, shiny. Slim, curvaceous. Long pale hair spilling in waves over a shoulder as they are turned away from him, looking outside. His body is leaden, but he could feel Morgana at his feet shifting, could hear him chirping at the intruder. The figure turns, and their face is just as shiny as their entire outfit, covering the upper part of their face, features pinched tight. Full lips, pale skin, round chin.

She gently shushes his cat, a gloved finger on her lips. Her eyes are fond, gentle, he could tell even in his sleep-drunk cognition. Akira could also tell when she notices him being (partly) awake, her entire form going rigid, like a cat ready to sprint. He blinks slowly in a familiar motion, the weight of sleep seeping through his eyelashes. She has little triangles on top of her mask, the shape unmistakable.

"Another stray." Akira finds himself saying, throat scratchy with sleep. He feels the pause, the wait. "Mona has certainly done worse." He closes his eyes, snuggles in his pillow, smiles as he tastes the surprise in the air. There is a slight pause before the weight fully gets off the bed, the light from outside brighter against the inside of his eyelids. He peers at her through his eyelashes, feels his face pull into a listless, cheeky smirk. "Just make sure you close the window properly this time."

Vision blurry as it is, registers a nod. Satisfied, he lets his body go slack once more, inviting sleep's numbness. "Make sure you get home safe." A few moments pass before the window slides closed in a careful movement that makes him hum gratefully, and he gets pulled down once more.

 

* * *

 

 

She wasn't planning on coming back. No, a better way to put it was that: she repeatedly tried to talk herself out of it, right up until she reached her destination. And here she is now, staring at the old Japanese window, thin wood frames and yellowed rice paper glowing from the inside. She huffs, tightening her grip on the windowsill, leather glove creaking from the strain. She tries (once more) to stay rational as her other hand reaches out. Surely he'd locked the window by now.

It slides open at the faintest brush of her fingers, and on the other side a dark silhouette lined in brass yellow leans against the window frame. She is too stunned by the brightness to react, and by the time her eyes adjust she is no longer surprised.

There he is, the same boy she saw that night, who apparently sleeps in this attic. And he caught her once again.

"How did you know?" she can't help but grumble, lips pursed into a pout. Now with proper lighting and facing each other, he seems to take her in, but his expression remains inscrutable. He leans his face into his palm, looking so damn relaxed when faced with a mysterious vigilante who had been about to break and enter his home (again).

"You coming in or is this just a short stop this time?" he asks, casual and unassuming as all get-out.

"I can't tell whether you're really brave or really stupid." She finds herself muttering. He smiles at that, and it's not like she really is a cat, but somehow her senses just sharpen at the sight, the strange curve of his mouth a new point of focus to follow from one end to the other and back.

His eyelashes are just as long as she remembered. His hair just as curly and dark. Messy locks long enough to get into his eyes. His open sweater is thick and drooping, slipping down his frame, insistingly revealing his collarbones.

She lets herself sway forward, lean into his side of the window. "Only one way to find out." He concludes as he steps away, voice low, riddled with undertones.

Her heels thump against the old wooden floor, and she takes in the place when it's not draped in shadow. It looks just as decrepit as she initially thought, but not as dusty or cluttered. The junk she had previously hid among is now gone. What remains is neatly stored in boxes or placed on the metal shelves. A potted plant sits right next to the shelf, sporting a vibrant sheen.

"A bit earlier than your previous visit. Not that I'm complaining. It's nice to know you weren't just a fabrication of a sleep-deprived guy's imagination."

"Oh?"

He moves around the place like it had been a statement about the weather. He grabs the lone mug on a creaky hackneyed desk, gingerly takes a sip with the experience of a wine connoisseur. She should probably be self-conscious of her own staring, but there is something guileful about him in that moment, and she grins, admires the way his pale neck arches as he swallows.

"Like I said, there are worse things that could happen than a vigilante in a catsuit breaking and entering and hovering over my bed." He shrugs and there might not be a grin on his face but she detects a playful lilt in his voice. "A few times Mona decided to use my face as a pillow and suffocate me in my sleep. Now that was terrifying."

She can't help but laugh at that. "Oh yes, your cat! Lovely little one, but gave me quite the scare too." She looks at him through lowered lashes, a fake demure quirk of her lips. "And yet you seemed far from it last time. I would have expected more of a freakout, but I guess you're used to cats on your bed."

The boy just hums, arms crossed, chin in his palm, looking at her. "In my defense," he lightly shrugged "I had a long day."

She laughs again, damn him. "Long enough to sass a vigilante that broke into your house?" She sobers up a bit more as the thought takes hold. "You must have heard one or two things about us, in the city, from the news. You're not even a little bit worried?"

"I know what the official verdict is, but I can't say I'm a fan of those in general." He sounds almost wistful, blinking slowly like it was a conscious, deliberate movement; it softens his features. "All I know is that not everyone deserves the things they get, good or bad. The world is unfair like that." He shrugs again, and she silently follows the slide of his grey cardigan as it slumps some more, revealing the dark short-sleeve underneath, before getting pulled back up by one pale hand. It's a visual fixation that makes it hard to come up with a response to his words.

Before she could find any, the sound of wailing sirens start blaring outside, making them both jump. Looking towards the window, there are no blue and red lights shining through the paper, but the sound creeps closer, slides across a nearby street. Her panic increases as she sees her host shift at the corner of her eye, as he gets closer to the window. He doesn't open it, just listens, then he turns to look at her.

_Are they here for you?_

She doesn't know if he'd believe her if she says no, doesn't know what he'd do if she says yes. She is rooted to the spot, pinned by his stare, aware of the tenseness in her jaw, the tight line of her shoulders. Something must be giving him pause, for he lets his hand slide off the windowsill and casually makes his way back to the desk. He sits down with a deliberate poise and looseness in his frame, rakes his hand through his hair, no longer looking at her directly.

"Well," he picks up his mug again, takes a sip to stay busy in the ensuing silence, pointedly ignoring the piercing police sirens in the distance. "They'll leave eventually."

"They'll come back." she finds herself saying. "They always do. They never stop." He doesn't give anything away, no signs that he even heard her and something crawls between her bones and the fabric of her catsuit. Her feet take her forwards until her shadow looms over him, melds into his hair. She is hot and cold at the same time, brine and honey roiling in her gut. He doesn't say anything and her eyes are dry as she stares at him, fixated and unblinking. He slowly concedes to face her once more, and once he does he blinks in her stead. It is almost languorous, his lashes pulling up to show a clear, serene gaze. He is a cloudless sky and she cannot read him.

Mind made up, she gives into the urge to lift her hand and encompass his cheek, dragging his attention away from the window, the phone she doesn't doubt he keeps on him, and fixes it on her instead.

He follows the movement, face blank but mildly attentive. And he lets her do as she pleases, lets her trace the slope of his cheekbone, carefully press into the squish of his skin. Leather creaks as her fingers fan out, as they spread across his jaw, his ear, teasing the curls of his hair. She grazes his pulse point, thumb sliding right below his eye, across his lower lashes. He seeks out her gaze, but she is momentarily distracted by the sight of her colors against his moon-pale skin.

"Are you alright?" he asks her, and her legs just fold across his, his thighs her chair now, arm climbing higher to rake across that thick, messy hair properly. Her nails are covered, but she scrapes the tips of her fingers across anyway, the seams in her gloves catching onto his scalp. His eyes flutter, sight glazing over for a moment, and damn, she wants to keep him that way.

Her hand won't stop swimming through the curly strands, taken to it like a fish in water. He subtly leans his head into the crook of her elbow, into the bend of her wrist; and something squeezes itself within her belly at the gesture, mouth going dry at the sight. Her suit has a wet shine to it in the attic light, color saturated like ripe currant. His face is cradled in her hand, her fingers buried in his hair, and he's looking at her, ash-grey eyes half-masted yet sharp as a knife. Her colors suit him, she concludes as her face gravitates towards his, her other arm draping itself across his shoulder.

She half-expects him to stop her, but the expectant charge now in the air cracks like thunder as she presses her mouth to his. So close she can't see his expression anymore, yet can feel his chest moving as he inhales, nose brushing the edge of her mask, like breathing her in. He tilts his head, a warm sigh against her cheek as he exhales through his nose. He indulges her, plays along, lets the glide of her lipstick smooth and stick the surface of their lips together, pliant and warm and inviting; opens up, his breath rich and heavy, tongue the taste of darkest chocolate. Her newfound appreciation for it is a revelation; she savors it by licking it from within his mouth. She is enamored with the softness of his skin, the rush of her own pulse, the intimacy of it all.

Such a lovely boy, sharp like broken glass and just as lonely, buried with his cat in a dusty old attic. She wishes she wasn't wearing gloves, his hair silky clumps that easily slide between her leather-clad fingers. The push and pull motions of her mouth against his, the glide of her hands all over him, it lulls her into something not quite calm, but rather low and electric that buzzes beneath her skin.

"I know what you're doing." He breathes into her mouth sweetly, and he sounds so composed, it makes her brain take note despite the gravel in his voice.

An inquisitive sound comes out of her that vibrates against his teeth, and she realizes just then that his hands aren't touching her. Apart from the kiss, he hadn't touched her at all. Uneasy, she pries their mouths apart, but apparently that is when he decides to actually use his hands. He presses her to him, and her hind-brain decides to appreciate how nice it feels, while her body buzzes with adrenaline from the kiss and her mind with the dread of uncertainty.

"What...?" her mouth tingles distractingly, can't form words, like he had pried apart her thoughts off her tongue. He doesn't leave her fumbling for long, but his words only add to her unease.

"I know your type." He says, and he sounds so unperturbed while his hands gently but firmly press her against him, it makes her head spin with mixed signals.

" _My type_?" She wants to sound more accusatory but can't quite manage, steeling herself in this warm, questionable embrace, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He slides a hand across her back tenderly, wordlessly asking for her compliance.

"You looked for a safe place to hide and found yourself cornered in someone else's turf. You were caught off guard and scared for your own well-being. So you try to get in the owner's good graces in any way you can, convince them they should let you take shelter." He hums against her ear, the pulse in his throat against her mouth almost enough to distract her from the memory now pushing at the forefront.

"Wha- I'm not a _stray_."

One of his hands keeps making loose circles across her upper back, and her shoulders loosen against her will.

"I'm happy to help if you need it." his voice is soft; she can feel the rumble of it in his chest. "You don't need to convince me to let you stay. Just ask."

"Ugh." She's warm all over, the points of contact between their bodies keeping the embers alight. Her eyes burn, so she presses them against his shoulder. Her face is on fire. His hand lifts, gently starts petting her head, her hair, the smooth surface of her mask at her crown. Ugh. Her lips still tingle. Her pulse is in between her thighs.

"You're terrible." She tells him, lifting her chin and leaning it against his shoulder; and if he reacts in any way to that, she can't tell. She hopes there's lipstick smears now seeped into his sweater.

"And yet you came back." he retorts easily. "How come?"

She silently takes stock of her situation, in her skintight catsuit, straddling a stranger in his own home, flattened against his front, embarrassed and aroused. His hands never stray farther than her lower back.

"I guess I was curious." She admits and it is unexpectedly easy to say that out loud, to her new gracious host.

He makes a noise that is undoubtedly a stifled sound of amusement and she frowns, affronted just on principle. "Did the satisfaction bring you back?" he said and _oh my god_

" _Oh my god_ , shut up!" she exclaims, and she is so mad, so flummoxed and off-kilter she starts laughing hard and loud. She presses her face against his chest to muffle it, fists bunched into his sweater and right then she wants to strangle him with her whip but also not really. She squeezes him between her legs instead, and the sensation of tears of laughter at the corners of her eyes makes the knowledge of her lowkey arousal that much more baffling.

She doesn't know how long they had been sitting like this, and she doesn't know when they would no longer, as far as she's concerned. She lets a loud breath against his neck, taking quiet pleasure in seeing goosebumps rise in its wake. Serves him right for being so terrible. And since she is here anyway, might as well revel in another urge; she crushes her lips against his pulse point, relishes in the sheer sensation of it, takes in the pink smear of her faded lipstick against the pale skin with budding delight.

One lone finger pointedly moves along the curve of her spine past the point of her middle, and she shivers.

"How about you?" She places her question within a sigh, her hips undulating in a half-suggestive motion against his thighs, trying to appease the mounting heat in her system. "You're quite the host, taking in a wanted vigilante. Not scared in the least of what I might do to you." She pauses for a second, words catching onto a thought. "And don't get any ideas, I don't usually do this sort of thing. With anyone."

"Now I feel special." He says, and his offhand tone might have been deeply frustrating if not for the way his voice sounds smelted and frayed at the edges. She smiles to herself with a fondness she would have had a hard time admitting to as a teenager.

"Yes you are." She murmurs as she brings her face back to his, wanting to indulge like a glutton, relishing in the effortless coaxing of his mouth back to hers. She breathes against his mouth, licks the bittersweet inside of it, sucks on his tongue. She purrs as his hands now skim over her suit, gently cradle her jaw, and yeah. Yeah, she could get used to this.

This time, he is the one who eventually parts from the kiss, which is just unacceptable. Dazed, pulse loud between her ears, she opens her mouth to protest but he already covered his with a fist as he tries to stifle a yawn.

Oh, it's probably late. Whoops.

"Sorry-" He starts, but she shakes her head, smiling. She painstakingly pries herself off his lap, and turns towards the window, stretching long and leisurely and hoping he's watching. The sirens were long gone. "I guess I should head out myself. Thanks for everything, by the way."

He clears his throat behind her. "No problem." He says instead of whatever sassy joke that probably went through his head, the terrible boy. His voice is pleasantly rough against her ears, and crouching on the windowsill, she turns to take him in one last time. "What's your name, smartass?" She asks.

Her vibrant lipstick has a new home, stamped over his lips and around them like he had eaten ripe sour-cherries in the most indecent manner. The shape of his mouth is just as captivating from afar. His hair is twice as messy (which isn't much, honestly), and her fingers twitch in longing to go through it again. His sweater droops once more, peeling off his shoulder, making her eyes roam to the mark she had left branded on his neck.

She grins like the cat that she refused to be but got the cream anyway. She recognizes the quiet gleam in his eyes.

Satisfaction.

"Akira." He says, poised and pokerfaced as ever.

He looks good in red.

**Author's Note:**

> if u think that's a lot of adjectives and metaphors, you're lucky you haven't seen my ff.net fics back in the day
> 
> P.S.: blame arcanawildcard for my love for Ann Takamaki


End file.
